


Five Times Holmes told Watson not to Touch (and one time he begged him to)

by ariadnes_string



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 00:15:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1919508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Holmes told Watson not to Touch (and one time he begged him to)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the come_at_once twenty-four hour porn challenge, for mainecoon64's prompt, "don't you touch that."

**One** : 

“Don’t touch it,” said Holmes, flinging his arms over his elaborate pattern of coloured papers like a toddler protecting his crayons. In the yellow lamplight, though, he looked as old as Methuselah. “the answer to the whole case is here, if I can only see it.”

Watson sighed. “I promise to leave it be. But you’ve worked too long.” Standing behind Holmes, he slid his hands along Holmes’s arms until he circled his wrists with his fingers. He brushed his lips against the back of Holmes’s neck. “Now come to bed.”

 **Two** : 

It looked like a hat box: round, butterfly yellow, encircled by a jaunty bow. Watson thought it might have been meant for a lady and misdelivered. But Holmes’s name was scrawled across its label in a spidery hand. Curious, feeling a bit transgressive, Watson lifted the lid. A single mushroom lay nestled in a bed of tissue paper, pale and velvet-skinned. A faint, enticing smell rose from it.

Watson reached a cautious hand into the box.

“No,” Holmes shouted, clattering down the stairs to the entrance hall. “Don’t touch that!”

Too late. Watson’s finger landed on the impossibly smooth skin of the mushroom. At the touch, it seemed to flex itself, for all the world like a cat getting ready to hiss. Then it sent a shower of white spores into his face.

+

“I don’t know why you’re watching me like that,” Watson said. “I’m fine.”

Holmes merely inclined his head slightly to the right and raised an eyebrow.

“You might at least tell me what you expect the effects to be.” Watson was irritated, and prickly with the midday heat in their stuffy room. Holmes had refused to let him venture out after his encounter with the mushroom.

Holmes lifted his eyes to the clock on the mantel. “You should be able to see for yourself. Right. About. Now.”

That deserved no answer but a scowl. Watson crossed his arms and harrumphed. He felt no different than usual. Hot, of course, but it was July. He pulled at the collar of his shirt, and shifted on the sofa, trying to get comfortable. But the heat seemed to have invaded his entire body, and the friction of trousers against skin bordered between pleasure and pain. He shifted again, trying to minimize the contact. It only made matters worse. Watson crossed his legs, hoping to hide the effects of his sensitivity.

On the other side of the room, Holmes smirked.

It was an infuriating smirk. It served only to remind Watson of all the other things that clever mouth could do. He wanted to lunge across the space between them and wipe the grin off Holmes’s face. To drag back Holmes’s unruly hair and pillage that mouth with his own tongue.

Involuntarily, Watson made a sound that he thought might charitably be called a groan. 

“Are you quite all right, old boy?’’ Holmes was closer now, but still just out of reach. “Do you require assistance?” His voice was dry, and perhaps slightly mocking.

“Damn you,” Watson gritted out. “Damn you, Holmes, you and your mushroom, too. Please—”

“By rights,” Holmes said, “I should leave you to your misery. It would be just punishment for spoiling my specimen.” But even as he spoke, he was uncrossing Watson’s legs, and kneeling between them. “Still, your consternation is quite lovely.” He expertly undid Watson’s flies. “And perhaps too delicious an opportunity to waste.” 

**Three:**

“Stop,” said Holmes, batting away Watson’s hands. “Leave it alone.”

“Please,” Watson said, “I’m in pain just watching you. Let me help.”

In truth, pain was not the most accurate word for Watson’s feelings on observing a naked, fully erect, Sherlock Holmes. It was a beautiful sight—indeed, an arousing one. And if Holmes was determined to duplicate a colleague’s recent experiment proving the power of the mind to produce sexual climax without the member in question being touched, then that was a branch of science to which Watson was prepared to give his full support. 

But what had started as an enjoyable spectacle had devolved slowly into an exhausting one. Watson had seen Holmes’s face flush, his breathing quicken, his cock fill and stand to attention, more times than he could count, only to watch all slump into quiescence again without fruition. He sensed that dogged determination was now supplying the place of pleasure.

“No hands.” Watson held up flat palms as evidence of his intentions. “But perhaps—“

He approached slowly. Holmes’s breaths grew faster as he neared, but he offered no protest. With his hands still raised high, Watson lowered himself to his knees. Holmes’s cock filled his vision, red, wet and slightly shiny at its tip.

He knew Holmes expected his mouth, could hear his indrawn gasp of anticipation, but Watson merely held his lips a fraction away from the tight skin and blew.

“Oh,” said Holmes. And then again, at a higher pitch. “Oh.”

A line of hot spunk striped Watson’s face, then another, and another. He reached out his tongue, and tasted salt, and earth, and triumph. 

**Four:**

In imagination, Watson could already feel them, their cool, glossy surface against his palms, their sharp edges. He could hear the susurration of the shuffle, the soft thwack as they were dealt. His fingers itched for them.

It had been a black day. A day when he’d had to tell a man he’d lose his leg. A day when performing the amputation had roused too many memories of war. He could sense the inexorable build of it, the blind drive to forget, the need to lose himself in drink and play until nothing of John Watson remained.

He had already put on his coat and boots. His hand hovered over the deck of cards hidden in his middle drawer.

“Don’t touch them.” Holmes. Watson hadn’t heard him come into the room. His voice was as gentle as Watson had ever known it.

Arrested by the unusual tone, Watson froze where he stood. 

“I’m glad to find you dressed,” Holmes continued, resuming something of his usual briskness. “I have need of you tonight. It’s a devilishly tricky business in which your expertise with a gun might not go amiss.”

Watson slid the drawer shut and followed Holmes from the room. 

**Five:**

“Don’t,” said Holmes, and turned his face away from Watson’s inquiring touch.

“There’s no shame, my dear. No shame in mourning the dead.” Watson smoothed Holmes’s hair off his forehead, then touched his jaw to bring his face back around. 

After a moment’s resistance, Holmes gave in, submitting his wet cheeks to Watson’s gaze with a rueful smile.

Watson kissed the tears away, wishing he could do the same for the grief.

 

**Plus One**

“Please,” said Holmes. His voice was thin and yearning and it brought Watson closer to the brink than he would’ve have liked. Holmes was on his knees, one hand braced against the bed, the other already stroking his own cock. “I need—“

“Not until you’re ready,” Watson told him, his own control already stretched to the breaking point. Still he forced himself to use first one, then two fingers to prepare Holmes carefully. While Holmes cursed him comprehensively, he opened the jar of petroleum jelly and coated his own prick, gasping at the contact.

“You bastard,” said Holmes. “You’re as slow as molasses, as slow as Scotland Yard on a rainy day, as slow as—.”

Watson’s first thrust seemed to drive the breath right out of him. And then neither of them was capable of coherent speech for a long time.

“My own heart,” said Holmes, as they lay tangled together afterwards. “Let us never be farther apart than this again.”


End file.
